Behind the Fullmetal Alchemist
by Miss.Puppet.1
Summary: Edward has kept many things hidden behind his smile. Things that are destroying him from the inside out. Will he keep it hidden or will he finally seek help? TW talk about suicide, descriptions of self harm (not terribly graphic)


_Author's note:_

_Okay, I warned you (on my profile because I'm helpful like that) that probably all my stories are going to focus around my kind of morbid, which is suicide, self harm, etc. So trigger warnings all around._

_This story is special to me because (fun fact) it's loosely based around my experiences with self harm and suicide. The things I'm putting Ed through in this story are mostly things that I have gone through. Even the ending. My story isn't finished, and neither is this one. You can believe me or not, it's up to you, but at least I know my truth. ANYWAYS...Here it is. Please enjoy, and reviews would be awesome so I know if I'm doing a good job or not. _

_And I guess this is common here - Disclaimer: I do not profit off of this work and do not lay claim to the ownership of Fullmetal Alchemist and the variations of._

I was 11 when I started thinking about my death. I guess that's not surprising, though. After Al and I almost died from failing the transmutation, I started wondering why I didn't die. It wasn't until I turned 14 that I started to wish I had.

I couldn't escape that thought, that desire, no matter how far I ran. Working as a dog for the military didn't stop the thoughts. Searching for the Philosopher's stone didn't dampen the desire. I couldn't get away from the thoughts, and I couldn't ignore them, but there was one thing, a very terrible thing that I hadn't tried yet. So I grabbed a knife. And I cut into my wrist. There was no way to stop after that. I was hooked from the very first cut. I only had one flesh wrist, so I tried to save some space for latter times, but it was difficult to refrain. The pain. The blood. The rush. It all distracted from the thoughts, if only for a little while. I thought I had found my salvation.

But I was wrong.

I had to be careful. I could not let anyone know, so I couldn't cut as much as I wanted. It hadn't even occurred to me yet to start using other places. I was too far gone to be able to think rationally. So I held back. I didn't cut as often or as bad. Part of me hoped that it would eventually taper off. That I would, at some point, stop wanting to cut. I didn't think it would be addicting. But it was. Oh god, but it was.

I couldn't, wouldn't stop. I tried. I was scared when I realized how bad it was getting. I never intended to leave gashes. I didn't think I'd grow so bold, so careless. Shallow cuts weren't enough anymore. But I couldn't stop. Too many times have I stopped myself from cutting, proud of my self-control, only to start up, worse than ever, a few days later. I kept my knife vaguely transmuted to my automail leg. It was easy to hide, and easy to use, since I didn't feel comfortable using my arm to do the deed. I cautiously and, somehow, carelessly ventured to new patches of skin. My upper arm, my torso, and my leg all became backups for my cutting, until my wrist would heal enough to withstand more abuse.

But not even that was enough to stop the thoughts. In fact, with every cut, the thoughts got worse. Finally, I stopped trying to ignore them. It was a relief to stop fighting that much. I started allowing myself to think about death more. I even started to think about the possibility of bringing death upon myself. The word "suicide" was too serious and too much at first. But then I stopped fighting even that. I was thinking about suicide. I wanted to kill myself. I was only 16.

Even getting Al's body back took a backseat in my brain, in favor of these thoughts. I still went through the motions, fighting the homunculi, going on missions, searching and searching and searching, but I was still caught up in this terrifying desire to kill myself. I didn't look at it as giving up, and I still don't. It was more of a fight than life ever was. This is why I never quite "got around" to killing myself. There were "attempts", but I consider them to be more attempts of attempts. Not once did I get close enough to die, but I started the process. Each time I swallowed the pills, or wrapped the noose around my neck, I was still too scared. So I would make myself throw up or cut the rope with my knife. I could fight off enemies without a blink of an eye but I couldn't kill myself. There were times when I came close to dying, but at someone else's hand, but my survival instincts would kick in. Regardless, I needed to be of my own hand. Dying wasn't enough. It had to be suicide. I was obsessed.

Somehow I got found out. I think one of Mustang's gang saw my wrist and reported back to him. I was confronted by him after returning from a mission, and he demanded that I talk to him. I purposely didn't tell him everything, but told enough to seem like I wasn't hiding anything. A part of me wanted to admit everything, but I didn't want to deal with the aftermath. So I cried to him and told him about the cutting and some of the thoughts, though I promised I wasn't thinking of doing anything. I told him that I wouldn't kill myself because I promised Al I'd get his body back. He may or may not have believed me, but he let me go, on the condition I talk to Al. He called ahead and told Al what was going on, so that I wouldn't be able to back out of that talk. The look on Al's face broke my heart, and for a little while I vowed I would never hurt him like this again. The problem with that kind of promise is that it's easy to turn it around and conclude that you just have to hide it better to keep the promise.

I became dangerously careful. I waited out the period of watchfulness, until Al relaxed enough to stop checking me every night. I turned to punching and bashing my wrist against walls, scratching and biting my skin, digging my nails into my arm. It was easy to temporarily replace cutting. I made myself smile more and act more energetic. I doubt I was fooling him, but it was enough for him to put him at ease.

I left my wrist alone for a while, since that was the only place Al knew about, and the cutting started anew, but worse. The cuts were getting deeper and the thoughts more persistent. Al and Mustang didn't question me anymore, and our mission went on as usual.

Then we got our bodies back. All the major problems were dealt with and things became more peaceful. Life became like it was before any of this got started. Everything was fixed, except me. I had been holding out hope that maybe, just maybe, the thoughts would go away after things calmed down. Perhaps it was all just stress or depression caused by what we were going through. It had all made sense. Or at least I thought it did.

I realized my foolishness the moment I found myself in one of Central's bathrooms with blood flowing from my newly recovered right arm. The biggest gash of them all marred the skin I had just regained. Looking back, I understand exactly how far gone I was after that. I kind of…snapped. I would hide away from everyone, curled up in dark corners. I stopped going out as often. The desire to kill myself was stronger than ever. On the darkest of those days, I remember standing in front of my mirror, my bathroom door locked as well as my apartment door. My legs were bleeding. My wrists were bleeding. My arms and my torso were bleeding. I was leaning over the sink, smiling at my reflection while I brought the razor blade up (my knife left behind with my automail) and made three relatively deep cuts on my face. I turned all the lights off and fell asleep on my bed, not even bothering to clean myself up.

That was how Al found me.

I had apparently been late for something and he came to check on me. He reminded me that I had given him a copy of my key, giving him easy access to my apartment. I was too tired to fight him off as he took me to the hospital. They didn't send me anywhere though, since I was not "sick enough" to require inpatient psychiatric help. Once I was released home, Al and Mustang and the rest slightly withdrew from me. I know they must have had their reasons, but it still hurt me. It hurt me too much. I couldn't let myself fall like that again, so I followed suit and withdrew from everything, including myself.

Despite everything I had ever gone through, I never became bitter until then. And I was extremely bitter. Everything lost its value to me, and I liked it. I felt better, but not in the way anyone hoped. I continued my life as though nothing had happened. I started acting like the Ed that everyone knew and loved. Things went back to normal, and everyone, including me, relaxed. They all believed the worse was behind us, and in a way, they were right. But again, not in the way anyone hoped.

It's been a while since then. I'm 21 now. I guess it's been more than a while, actually. Sometimes I'm not even sure if my memories are real. Did all of this really happen, or did I somehow make it up? It seems to be too much. I'm not even entirely sure when certain things happened. But I have no option but to trust myself, since I'm all I have left.

So here I am. Sitting in my room, holding a gun. I'm not sure how I got here, but going over everything seems to help. I never did get better. I withdrew so much that it seemed like it. Even I would have believed it if it weren't for the same old thoughts and desires running through my head.

I suppose I've always known, despite everything, that I was never meant to live a long life. I should have died so many times before. How did I survive? How is that Equivalent Exchange? I haven't wanted to be alive for so long, but I still am; while there are people out there who want to live, but are dying prematurely. Truth really is a bastard.

As I was saying, I wasn't meant to grow old. I never would have been content with that. I've lived long enough, and life holds nothing of interest for me. I'm ready to go…except…

I don't know if I think that because I'm sick. What if I am sick but I can get better and enjoy life, and look forward to another 60+ years? Is that even possible? What if it's possible but I never find out because I quit too early? I really don't know. It's all 'what ifs'.

I don't know what I'm going to do.

Will I hold this gun up to my head, and pull the trigger like I've always wanted to?

Or will I go tell someone, get help, and hope that this all changes?

I don't know.

But I guess I'm going to find out.


End file.
